As the Country, So the Proverb
by LarkspurWhispers
Summary: A collection of Hetalia fics that center around a proverb, saying, or idiom. These range from fluff to angst, humor to adventure, tales of foolishness to stories of endurance, and everything in between. Multiple pairings, multiple chapters. Second chapter up: Pillow Talk starring some Spamano!
1. The Way to a Man's Heart

**Author's Note: **Just some fluff between my OTP. And a little history is included too!

**Rating: **K

**Pairings: **England and America

**Disclaimer: **I don't own.

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**The Way to a Man's Heart is Through His Stomach**

- origin unknown

America's stomach was a bottomless abyss. Seriously, that superpower could eat! England remembered the countless times his young colony would pipe up, "Seconds, Engwand!" while at the dinner table so many years ago. "Seconds" would turn into "thirds" and "thirds" into 'fourths" until the older nation could only marvel at how much one tiny lad could eat. Great Britain was an empire at its prime, rough and cruel at times when dealing with those in his way of expansion, but he always had a soft spot for the little blonde colony who would call him his brother. It made his heart glow when he heard no criticisms from America, especially when that jerk-face gimp France did nothing but mock him. England was proud that his nutritious meals were able to let his colony grow up to a strong fine man.

(Strong enough to leave him, but let's not dwell on that now.)

As time went on, England watched how America's continuous appetite had both a good and bad side. The empire stayed at a distance, for those scars still needed some time to heal.

But even across the Atlantic, he still noticed how America's hunger for adventure spurred an expedition in the early 1800s to the wild uncharted West, and how the nation himself accompanied Lewis and Clark on their momentous journey. England observed as his hunger for land took the young country down a destructive path, justifying the murder of thousands with Manifest Destiny. He saw a hunger for righteousness during the especially turbulent Civil War. That period was especially hard to watch as America's personality was pulled towards two different directions, and his larges foe was found within himself. A post-war America, more united and divided than ever, was able to swallow the pain, chock it up to experience, and rebuild the country once more.

America's cravings were subject to change in his population's interests and world trends. Whether he was led by his heart or his stomach, it didn't really matter for both often longed for the same thing. In the late 19th century, he took after his former brother/father figure and adapted a diet of steel and steam and railroad tracks. He desired the taste of reform for the workers who burned and the women who couldn't vote during the 1910s. In the 1920s, it was alcohol and cigarettes (because once something is prohibited, doesn't that make you want it even more?). During the Great Depression, it was anything America could get his hands on. The starvation of his people left his stomach gnawingly empty no matter how much food he ate. It was hard times, indeed.

Nowadays, England liked to hum a song he rewrote the lyrics to called "99 Burgers and Coke on the Wall" whenever witnessing the act of his former colony/current ally/Special Relationship partner practically inhale the whole buffet during world conferences. America's voracious appetite always drew looks of disgust and awe from the other nations, but England was quite used to it. France would often ask suggestive questions like, "So does he devour you with the same rigor in bed as your _lover_?" To which England would reply by shoving a plate of food in the Frenchman's lewd and ugly face. (I mean, that pathetic excuse for a beard? He looks as manly as Shaggy from Scooby Doo!)

Also nowadays, America seemed to enjoy making small quips about how horrible England's cooking is. Take now for instance. The two were eating a meal prepared by England in his London home, carrying a nice comfortable conversation. The older of the two finished up and went to wash his dishes in the nearby kitchen sink. Out of the blue, America mused, "Lucky for you that the stomach isn't the only way to a dude's heart." England's thick eyebrows began to furrow and he prepared himself for another spat. He turned around sharply, but in facing his former ward he detected a glimmer of mischievousness in America's eyes and a teasing chuckle in his voice. The green-eyed nation puffed up like an irritated parrot, annoyed and still a little wounded that his "inferior" cooking was insulted. On top of that, it was by the very person who asked for fifth servings when he was a bratty tyke! England calmly picked up a recently washed frying pan and landed it square on the top of America's blonde mop of hair (hard enough to sting, gentle enough not to cause a bump).

"Oooooch, man. Not cool. Not cool." America clutched his head dramatically and a pout came to grace his features. "Two frying pan wielding nations are enough," he moaned.

England merely huffed in response, set the metal weapon down, and returned to washing the dishes. "My cooking isn't that bad," he muttered darkly. "Stupid sod with no taste buds." But wait, was it possible that he was the one who ruined them or burned them off during his childhood? There's no way, right? England set about ferociously scrubbing a certain charred mass of gunk that would not budge from a plate.

Suddenly, he felt arms wrapping around his waist from behind him and a forehead on his shoulder, honey-blonde hair tickling his neck and cheek.

"Now what, you baby?" was let out in a sigh, with no malice in the older nation's words. After several beats of silence from the superpower clinging to him, England shrugged as much as he could with a weight on his shoulder and went back to work. He focused on using all his strength on wrestling against the black sticky remains on the cutlery.

"I'm sorry," came a small voice muffled by the green sweater that England was wearing. America's head rose up and the shorter male turned his own slightly to view him properly. "I-I really loooove your cooking! Even more than McDonald's!" The fibbing nation forced his mouth to curve up into a sad attempt of a smile.

Sighing again, England turned toe faucet off, and spun so he was facing America completely.

'That's alright, love. You don't have to lie to me."

Exhaling in relief, America visibly relaxed and smiled genuinely this time. England couldn't help it that his heart swelled every time that boy looked at him as if he was the only one who mattered in the world. "I may not love your cooking, but I totally love you!" His smile grew cheeky and bright as he finished his confession, leaving the man in his arms in an altogether flustered state.

A blushing England muttered something under his breath, but America didn't catch it. "Whadja say? You gotta speak louder," he chided gently, hand reaching up to dishevel the sandy blonde hair, then smooth it down again before England puts up a fuss. America leaned in even closer, intent on listening to the word coming out of the reluctant nation's mouth.

"L-love you too, git." England said, trying not to stutter. How embarrassing! He was a grown nation, a former glorious empire, not some gawky hormonal teenager that gained a speech impediment during anything that made him nervous or embarrassed. To redeem himself, England boldly reached for America's head and brought it down for their lips to meet.

Pulling away after several moments, England noticed a ravenous look on his partner's face. "You know what I'm really super-duper hungry for?" England quirked a bushy eyebrow and sent him a questioning look. How in the world could this bloke be hungry after eating enough to feed a nation? Oh wait… he was a nation.

America smiled, and with a sly shine in his eyes he whispered in his ear, "I'm craving some England right about now."


	2. Pillow Talk

**Rating:** K+ for one swear word

**Pairing:** Spain and Romano (sort of one-sided)

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**Consultar con la almohada: To consult your pillow**

-Spanish idiom meaning "to think it over" or "to sleep on it."

The silvery moonlight shone through the curtains in ethereal beams and painted the room a glowing bluish-white. A slight breeze came from the open window, gentle in rustling the light blankets that covered a reclining Spaniard. Summers in Barcelona were always hot and sunny, but the low humidity and steady mild wind created a perfect atmosphere. The air was not too hot or too cold, but peaceful and soothing and altogether smelled of home. It was a perfect summer night to lay back and relax-

THUD! Forcing his eyes open, Spain found himself in an odd and painful position. With his head and shoulders on the hardwood floor and his legs sprawled halfway on his bed, he couldn't help but groan in discomfort. He lifted his arms and attempted to haul himself back up, but the bed sheets slipped from the frame and his momentum made him tumble fully to the ground.

Spain was a mess of blankets and limbs. He sighed in defeat and decided to accept the fact he was stuck on the floor like an overturned turtle. How sad. The wooden surface was cold on his bare back, but he didn't mind too much. Reaching his arms above him, the curly-haired nation stretched to release built-up tension that he didn't realize he had. This wasn't the first time that a dream caused enough emotion for him to roll right off his bed.

It was the dreams that kept waking him up. Dreams of a certain stubborn, cussing, cowardly, feisty, adorable, passionate, lovable Italian. Dreams of his former henchman trying to clean the house, picking tomatoes with him, swearing and cheeks flaming when he made a klutzy move. Dreams of a handsome and fierce country, all grown up with blazing hazel eyes who threw insults at him yet always stood by him even at his worse. It was the dreams of Romano that drove him absolutely crazy.

Spain shook his head to try to clear his thoughts. He forced himself off the wood floor, muttering about how stupid it was to stress over this. Romano was a free and independent nation now, as he deserved to be. It would be selfish of him to try to take his former colony back when he was obviously better off the way he is now. Spain understood the logic, and he didn't want to intrude. Climbing onto his bed, he attempted to fall back asleep.

Though on the surface the care-free nation seemed oblivious, he always became serious when the subject was something dear to him. He had spent many nights agonizing over how he should act around Romano, what he should say now that he realized that the feelings he had always harbored would never go away. He didn't want to push his precious Italian away because being close friends is always better than nothing. So far, his decision was to go on autopilot around Romano, to be the silly, cheerful, clueless Spaniard that most people know him as. But, he didn't know if he could maintain that much longer. A one-sided love was not enough to satisfy him. He was a country of passion, and he was burning up for his _querido_.

A few minutes later, he found himself tossing and turning in his king-sized bed, limbs tangled in the bed sheets, and completely awake.

"_Mi corazon, mi cielo, mi vida. Qué debo hacer?" _Punching his pillow in frustration, Spain steeled himself for another sleepless night. He needed the rest for the world meeting scheduled for tomorrow, but sleep was slipping away from him. In attempting to get comfortable, he accidentally bumped his bedside table and knocked some items off it. The annoyed nation reached down and began to pick up his random stuff, but then stopped when he held a pad of paper and a pencil. A grin formed on his face as the Spaniard was struck with an ingenious idea.

Leaving his other junk on the floor, he scribbled furiously (or should I say passionately?) on the paper with the help of the moonlight. With one final pencil stroke, he triumphantly raised his masterpiece in the air to admire his hard work. On the paper was a quick sketch of Romano with a slightly pissed off face and his wild curl bouncing by the side of his head. Perfect! With a giddy smile, Spain carefully placed it on the top of an upturned pillow and patted it down with care.

He hastily scrambled backwards, then turned to face his pseudo-Romano. Crossing his legs to get comfortable, Spain sat up straight with good posture and stared intensely at his pillow. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his whirling mind. "Practice. You need practice talking to him. You once were a mighty empire, and you can handle talking to the love of your life truthfully. It's just practice, so calm down." His determination was not enough to still his fidgeting hands and his blushing cheeks.

"You're pathetic!" he berated himself. "I'm getting nervous talking to a fucking pillow!" Thoroughly embarrassed about his fluttering heart and frayed nerves, Spain was glad that no one was around to see this pitiful display. "Romano... it's your fault. You're the only one who can do this to meeee," he whined. And it was true. If it were any other person, Spain's natural passionate instincts would kick in and he could seduce a woman with just one glance. Not so with Romano, not so. Somehow words would slip out of his mouth that he didn't mean to say. He would annoy the younger man by calling him "tomato" just to see his cute blush caused by anger. He would gently poke fun because he wanted to know what adorable expressions he would make. His general flirting never worked on Romano, who would always become angry, spit some insults, and then run away to who knows where. It would seem that Spain's love would forever be a lost cause.

Spain was jolted out of his reverie when he noticed the pillow-Romano glaring at him accusingly. The green-eyed nation coughed in his hand and pulled his focus back to his mission.

"_Hola_, Romano. Are you busy, I mean, are you available… no too formal. Umm, if you're free after the meeting would you like to come over? I can make you the best Spanish food that won't leave you disappointed!"

Pillow-Romano just stared back with a scowl.

"Ah, I take that as a no then? Oh, right. I forgot how much you insult my cooking."

Pillow-Romano did nothing to correct that statement.

"Well, there will be lots of tomatoes! We can go to my garden and pick some together, like old times! You love tomatoes don't you? Ahahaha…"

Spain trailed off weakly because pillow-Romano seemed to get more and more pissed with every word that left his mouth.

"Umm, what I really wanted to ask you is… well… I would like to spend more time with you because we haven't seen each other in a while, you know?" Spain averted his eyes from pillow-Romano's glare, too uncomfortable to face him. "And, you see, I've been kind of missing you… a lot. We don't get to be with each other as much as we used to, with work and all. Maybe you could come over today and we'll catch up on our lives, you know, and just hang out. I would really like that. We could both help with the cooking, because no one makes pasta like you do. I mean, there's your brother, but wait I really like your cooking much better! It's just so full of love and flavor and passion and… well I really like you too. Not just your cooking, of course, but the way you seem so happy and free when you do the things you love. I love how you are stubborn and feisty one moment and blushing and stuttering the next. I adore the cute faces you make when you're annoyed or pouting. But I love those rarer expressions of tenderness or passion or true happiness that I only get glimpses of. And when I spend time with you, I feel giddy and sunshine and ripe tomatoes and… oh that didn't make sense, did it?"

Spain took a large breath and summoned up the courage to continue on. "What I'm trying to say is that I really love you and I want to be with you forever." At this confession, the Spaniards cheeks heated up even more until they looked like, dare I say, tomatoes. "So… what do you think?"

The blushing nation snuck a peek at his item of affection only to see pillow-Romano face down on the bed.

"AHHH! ROMANO!" Spain's face had an expression of true horror. "Are you alright?! Are you dead? Talk to me!" He frantically tried to rearrange pillow-Romano into a normal position again, all the while worrying about the pillow's health. It took a while for the silly Spaniard to stop panicking and regain his composure. Taking deep breaths, he took in the crumpled state of his drawing with a concerned stare.

"I think…" he began. "I think I can do this! Tomorrow at the meeting, I'll do exactly as I rehearsed. _Bueno_." The determined nation began to tidy up, retrieving his belongings from the floor and carefully placing the Romano drawing on his bedside table.

He smiled at the slivers of moonlight that danced in time to the fluttering curtains. With a determined spirit, he exclaimed "Tomorrow is going to be a great day!"

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**Author's Note:** For some reason, Spain acting like a teenage girl doesn't seem too out of character to me, haha. He definitely would be the silly type to get so absorbed into talking to inanimate objects. It's pillow talk… literally! Tee hee.

How Romano will react to Spain the next day is up for interpretation. :) I think Spain will probably need more practice time with pillow-Romano. But he will do it, he will succeed! For he is the country of passion, and he will let nothing stand in his way to reach his love! Fight on, Spain, fight on!


End file.
